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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756836">Prince of Thieves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme'>wanderwithme (wanderlustt)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Naruto politics, Pining, Please read the notes before proceeding!, Pre-Canon, Romance, Slow Burn, Thank You!, To post-canon, but make it fashion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:01:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,471</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756836</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stop talking, woman,” Madara hisses. “You’re giving me a headache.”</p><p><i>‘Along with a different kind of ache between the legs, but that’s none of my business,’</i> you think, whistling a cheerful tune.</p><p>In which Madara is many things. (A lover, he is not.)</p><p>And yet.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Uchiha Madara/Original Female Character(s), Uchiha Madara/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>368</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. knew you once</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>quick housekeeping notes -- 1) reader has a name, an age, and eventually description (you're safe until chapter 3), so if that's not your jam, please close the screen or close ur eyes...whichever is easier.... 2) this is a slowburn romance and will contain sexually explicit content (ill update the tags as we go) 3) also... if yknow it.... yknow it ;)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are many idiotic ways to die, but this one surely takes the cake, you think, staring at the burial site outside the gates—a glorified ditch filled with tarped corpses, some still bleeding through cloth.</p><p>It takes a considerable amount of effort for you to stifle a sigh, turning your gaze to the party head while listening to the sound of bodies hitting dirt until it sounds very much like bodies hitting bodies instead. They’re like sacks of potatoes, each limb acting like its own singular entity, crumpled in against each other until the <em>thwacking</em> comes to utter silence.</p><p>When the last of it is over, you look at mother, who’s watching the end of the procession like she’s proctoring some silly exam. “That look on your face is unbecoming. You ought to show some respect for the dead,” she chides, chillingly cold, staring past the overlook at Madara and his gang of buffoonish shinobi dressed in armor.</p><p>“There’s no respect in thieving,” you reply, utterly noncommittal like it’s the most obvious truth in the world -- a truth you've all but resigned yourself to. “They knew what kind of risks they were taking when they decided to storm into enemy territory like a pack of hungry dogs. Hungry, moronic, incessantly loud.”</p><p>That’s all your clan ever does—steal, thieve, and wait for retaliation, but you decide to not to voice this sentiment aloud because the look on mother’s face goes from something like indifference to absolute intolerance.</p><p>“Those <em>morons</em> are the reason why you’re able to eat dinner in peace,” she states, every word frozen over twice. “Those are good men, <em>our men</em>. You’ll not speak of them as vagabonds, nor will you disrespect their deaths with that foul tongue of yours.”</p><p>She steps away from the overlook—back to the shade of the compound no doubt to have her afternoon tea.</p><p>“The only difference between us and the local vagabonds outside our gates is the fact that one of us has a clan insignia,” you state cooly, staring at Madara, who’s barking out orders to shut the gates after his party closes up the grave, a line in the sand sewn shut forevermore. In time, that line will vanish, and no one will know they’re walking over bodies buried six feet under.</p><p>Mother doesn't hear you, having already vanished into the corridors of the compound, but you let it roll off your shoulder as you gaze at the gates, so looming and large -- shielding you from whatever world lies outside.</p><p>*</p><p>Madara glares at you.</p><p>He’s been doing quite a lot of that lately, not that it matters. <em>Not that you matter</em>. You’re perfectly content being invisible inside the winding halls of this compound, a singular moth happy to sidle up to the darkness, or however the saying goes. (You wouldn’t know. <em>Idioms and poetry </em>were always your favorite lessons to cut.)</p><p>But still, the long, arduous stares are draining to endure. <em>Nauseating</em>, even. Say what you will about the Uchiha Clan and their infamous (and somewhat overrated) <em>bloodline</em>, getting glared daggers the whole day is a different kind of fatigue. Like little pricks in your back that builds into an itch that somewhat inevitably builds into <em>pain</em>.</p><p>He glares at you over afternoon tea. He glares at you in the common room and in the library. He glares at you when you’re playing shogi in the courtyard with the ministers who are happy to be none-the-wiser. <em>He even glares at you when you’re eating breakfast</em> with mother, who seems content to let him breathe down your shoulder. Which he does. <em>Without pause</em>. At almost every waking hour of the day.</p><p>And in such close quarters, it’s easy. The main compound inside the gates has only a little more than a hundred men and women living inside the walls. And sadly, you're one of them.</p><p>Still, you’re patient as ever. <em>Patient and willing to stay the course</em>. Because all you need to do is corner him in the hall, when he’s taking his afternoon stroll through the gardens, past the koi pond, over the bridge, right into the partition—</p><p>“What do you want from me,” you say, stepping from the shadows to block the pathway leading into the compound. “Go ahead, spit it out.”</p><p>He stares at you blankly, but that look on his face is mirthless, like he’s scrutinizing an ugly abscess of a weed in the middle of an orchid garden—which can’t be far from the truth. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he states plainly, folding his arms behind his back as if to give you a fighting chance in whatever you’re about to do.</p><p>Oh, <em>you see</em> now—he’s going to play dumb.</p><p>“You’re <em>staring</em> at me,” you state, stopping just short of telling him how incredibly <em>unnerving </em>it is. How incredibly exhausting it is. How incredibly <em>petulant</em> it is. “Is it because I called you a dog? <em>Is it because I called your mission outside petty theft?</em> Is it because—"</p><p>“Wait, you called me a dog?”</p><p>You blink. He blinks back.</p><p>Before either of you can say anymore, you turn your heel to leave. He doesn’t follow you.</p><p>For that, you’re grateful.</p><p>But you can still feel the hard glare burning holes into the back of your robes. You wouldn’t be surprised if the insignia stitched into the back of your robes was all but burnt to a crisp.</p><p>*</p><p>Truthfully, it's <em>not</em> a stretch to say Madara is a dog—a hyper-vigilant one, nonetheless, taking great care to keep a handle on day-to-day duties inside the main compound while also leading his embassy of morons out on their thieving missions. Perhaps <em>watchdog</em> is more apt. Loyal to a fault, stupidly bullheaded, and a slave to structure and order.</p><p>“Lord Tajima is bedbound,” says mother, leaving her tea untouched in the very empty tearoom of the compound. The hour is late, the children are sleeping, and not a single soul is wandering the halls, not even the handmaids. “It’s unlikely he’ll ever walk again, let alone lead a team.” She meets your gaze, whatever wheel that’s been turning in her mind coming to a full stop when she notices your utter complacency. “Times are changing. You ought to prepare yourself.”</p><p>“That’s what they say every day,” you mumble, fussing with the sash of your robes until it’s loose and you can kick back and enjoy your tea without stiffening your entire being for the sake of posture. “But I still wake up the same, eat the same, shit the same, and sleep the same. Times changes, our leaders live and die, and still we go on. Like sailboats in the night, crossing a river of corpses poisoned by half-thunk ideology.”</p><p>“It truly astounds me how that foul tongue of yours manages to wax poetic with the <em>ugliest</em> words,” says mother, shooting you a glare so dense it could probably rival Madara’s dead-eyed gaze.</p><p>You smile, propping your elbows on the table to lean in closer, <em>much to her chagrin</em>. “Thank you. The scholars in class never give me enough credit.”</p><p>She takes a long breath before exhaling, a wrinkle forming over her brow that looks wiry and strained.</p><p>“Are you concerned about job security, mother?” You go on, peering over her shoulder at the open window where you find a very familiar looking man strolling through the gardens. “At the worst, Tomboki is next in line to take his father’s place, and you, to take his righthand.” <em>The life of a court advisor</em>, through and through—there’s absolutely no subtlety or grace to it, but you figure that’s the beauty of these times, isn’t it? “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one here who’s probably going to get out of this very unfortunate situation unscathed.”</p><p>Mother meets your gaze, “Tomboki is dead.”</p><p>You feel your breath catch in your throat.</p><p>“He died in their last expedition,” mother goes on, taking a long sip of her tea before setting the cup down on the table. “He was buried with the others that day.”</p><p><em>That day</em>—that day you were watching him being laid to rest with the others. No doubt he was one of the bodies wrapped up in that unfortunate cheap tarp.</p><p>“Madara is next in line,” the words escape you before you can even comprehend the gravity of what it sounds like—and more importantly, <em>what it means</em>. “Shit.” You lean back in your seat before sitting up straight again. “I called him a dog the day his brother died. <em>I called his brother a dog</em>.”</p><p>And as if every string of frustration is unwinding in your back, you keel over and bury your face into your arms. “<em>Damn it, </em>I'm an idiot,” you mutter, feeling as if you’ve just waded into quicksand, only to realize it’s not sand that’s swallowing you whole, but <em>fucking snakes</em>.</p><p>Mother sips her tea, "To the surprise of no one."</p><p>*</p><p>You drag your feet against the compound floors, staring out into the night sky past the gates, <em>past the flowers</em>, past all the pretty little things you always considered silly and wasteful.</p><p>There he is—Madara—sitting in the open-aired space of the common room. Staring into the garden with utter dispassion. You meet his gaze from across greener pastures, a wedge of distance between you filled with orchids in full bloom. You take a breath, stick your chest out, and cross the dirt path to meet him.</p><p>“You’re killing the flowers,” he states plainly, rolling on his side while <em>you</em> resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “<em>Moron</em>.”</p><p>You have to physically resist the urge to snip back at him, but it’s late in the day, <em>you owe him an apology</em>, and you’re afraid if you don’t buck up now you might not find the strength to do it again. “Can I sit?” You ask, sizing up the room to see if there’s anyone lurking behind closed doors you should be mindful of. This is somewhat compromising, given the very state of your being: he’s a man, you’re a woman, both of you are likely to be betrothed to someone else in the coming months. </p><p>“No," he states, plain and simple.</p><p>You frown, taking a seat anyway just to spite him.</p><p>“I thought I told you<em>—</em>”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you interject before he can get any further, not quite turning around to meet his gaze because you’re pretty sure that smug look on his face won’t do much to make you follow through. You settle for the flowers instead, which are much prettier to look at and have much less attitude about them. “I didn’t know. I’m…sure Tomboki was a good man.”</p><p>“Spare me your sympathy, woman,” he says, sounding very much over this conversation. “I liked you better when you had more bite.”</p><p>“<em>Must you fight me when I’m offering you an apology?”</em> You snap, looking over your shoulder to see him scratching his ear, boredom written in every facet of his being. He’s laying down on his side, mussing up his hair,<em> yawning at you as if a yawn could act as a damned weapon</em>. When you realize he literally doesn’t give a shit, you clench your fists...</p><p>...and <em>sigh</em>.</p><p>Because that’s all you can do. “Could’ve at least given him a proper burial. You’re the son of Lord Tajima, for god’s sake.” You’re not sure when you decided to change up your tune, but it’s much easier to feign compassion by reprimanding someone than to act the benevolent fairy. “Throw him a ceremony—at least give him a box to rot away in."</p><p>You’re pretty sure you’ve completely overstepped your boundaries, but a shadow of a smile forms on his face -- twisted, filled with spite, and chock full of dispassion -- and whatever worry you had about pissing him off is apparently gone. “Once you see it enough, you’ll realize there’s no honor in dying,” he says like it’s a fact of life and not some bullshit ideological pissing contest he’s having with himself. “We all die the same, regardless of rank. Regardless of title. And regardless of stature.”</p><p>You take a deep breath, hugging your knees to your chest, staring at him like he’s an absolute shitstain on an otherwise immaculate day.</p><p>“I don’t like you,” you say with no resolve at all.</p><p>“That makes two of us,” he shoots back, but there’s a glint in his eye that might be read as amusement had it not been for the shadow of the candlelight covering the good half of his face you can't read.</p><p>“But I feel like I’ve met you before.”</p><p>He stops. The look on his face—well, it just has to be illegal, right? It’s borderline obscene, sickeningly familiar. Like he’s looking at you and <em>only you</em>, like you’re the only truth in this world he can get a full grasp on. You share a moment of silence, looking out into the distance together, searching for something neither of you truly understand.</p><p>“Doubt it,” he says. “I would’ve remembered seeing a face as ugly as yours.”</p><p>“<em>Ugh</em>. I think my work is done here,” you say, standing up to brush off your robes. When you realize you should probably leave, you do a little mock bow like a dancing monkey, feeling the ache in your back as you lower your gaze to the floor. For the most part, he acknowledges your little curtsy—grunting at you. A dog. Through and through. “Good night, have a nice life, good luck with leading the clan." <em>On a halfwit brain</em>.</p><p>Just as you step onto pathway, he asks, “What’s your name?”</p><p>You turn around to face him, holding onto the edge of the wall, “Consider it a debt paid because I called your dead brother a dog,” you state, though the rancidness punctures every word you offer. “I’m Senbi. Daughter of Uchiha Kiyo, if you want to get specific.”</p><p>“I wasn’t aware she had a daughter,” he says, studying his nails like he has better places to be, <em>better things to do</em>, more important people to see.</p><p>You give him a look, stopping just short of rolling your eyes, “Somehow I doubt that.” Because if there’s one thing that’s certain about Madara—it’s that he knows <em>everything</em>.</p><p>And he must know exactly what you’re thinking because the corners of his lips tip up to form a smile like he’s already memorized your name, your face, and your story.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. i gave you my winter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You get high as a kite.</p><p>Madara does not.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You were never afforded the extravagance of marrying for love—and for years, you were content accepting that as truth, even as you watched your peers cry over what they thought was their free will torn away forevermore.</p><p>(But let’s face it: they <em>did</em> have a choice -- and they chose to relent. They chose <em>acquiescing</em>. Very few people are cut out to be rebels, and the Uchiha are no different.)</p><p>Even as you, the only woman of twelve other men, sit in on your lessons -- even as you watch the scholars tease out their typical witticisms like they’re all-knowing truths, all you can think about is how you’re going to spend the rest of your life married to a man you hardly have the pleasure of knowing.</p><p><em>Married to a man your mother chose</em>. Which, <em>hey</em>, maybe it’s not the end of the world. She’s always been a pretty decent judge of character, what with her ridiculously righteous sense of judgment and exaggerated self-worth.</p><p>Then again, she married father for love, <em>and father turned out to be a traitor</em>. And now father was gone -- but the elders never made any qualms keeping mother around. No doubt because she was the one who sold him out to begin with.</p><p>Whatever apprehensions you had are quickly devolving into gut-wrenching doubt that somewhat inevitably turns into <em>nausea</em>. You look at the open scrolls sitting before you, but you’re not truly digesting any of it. You’re listening to the other men in your class patter on, reciting whatever poem the minister asked them to read—but you’re wondering which one of them you’re going to be betrothed to. You’re wondering, of course, which one of them you’re going to have to fuck the night of your wedding.</p><p>“<em>Ugh</em>.”</p><p>And then you groan. Because you can't help yourself.</p><p>“Can I help you, Senbi? Perhaps you’ve a stomachache that ails you?” says minister Youta, stopping just short of your desk where you get a fantastic view of his feet. “Or does the old word of Ilin bring you so much displeasure that you’ve come to voice your displeasure out loud?”</p><p>You frown, but you never look up to meet his gaze, “No, minister. You were right the first time.” Because you're lingering on your peers, each one more morose than the next. <em>Cold, cool, nonchalant</em>. A lifetime of tears and blood running through your veins. It’s the Uchiha way, and you’ve come to absolutely <em>detest</em> it.</p><p>You would sooner die than marry any one of these twats.</p><p>*</p><p>You have one plan today. You're going to smok the old hemp you won off one of those ministers in a courtyard game of shogi, you're<em> going to get high</em>, you’re going to smoke some more, and then you’re going to sleep until kingdom come.</p><p>But first, tea.</p><p>The common room is bustling at this time of day, filled with cacophonies of chatter. <em>Did you hear about Tomboki? What a shame. He was a good kid</em>. <em>What about Madara? Oh, he's too hot-tempered to lead us well. His younger brother's much more suited for politics -- a shame he was born later. Such is his tragedy</em>.</p><p>You yawn.</p><p>Mother never quite meets your gaze, apparently fixated on the way you serve the tea, which somehow makes you stiffen your spine because it seems like she’s sizing up every facet of your being. From the way you pull back your sleeve to the way you hold the kettle. Still, you reach out and pour her a cup before pouring yourself a cup, and when you set the pot down, she clears her throat like there’s something sticky in her throat.</p><p>“You’re to marry Haruto,” she says. “You’ll meet him tomorrow, along with his mother and father. Wear something nice. Your blue robes with our sigil.”</p><p>You feel your stomach clench, but still, you persevere with that rigid smile of yours. None-the-wiser, spritely and true. “All my robes are blue. And all of them are stamped with our clan sigil.” It’s enough to make mother frown, which makes you feel a deep well of satisfaction somewhere beneath all that bravado and cheer. “What can you tell me about him?”</p><p>Mother just looks down at her cup, “He’s kind. His family comes from a long line of pig farmers.”</p><p>"Any brothers? Sisters?"</p><p>She doesn't answer, just taking her time to sip her tea. "Is that truly prudent information you need to know?"</p><p>She doesn’t need to say it for you to understand.</p><p><em>He’s wealthy</em>.</p><p>And more importantly.</p><p>
  <em>He won’t get in the way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>Being high as a kite is a <em>risky </em>endeavor in the main compound, what with the ministers lolly-gagging around, the elders mucking the main corridors, and the young whipper snappers on constant patrol with those beady black eyes, but what are you if not a risk-taker in times of quiet and peace?</p><p>As you continue ruminating the future of your marriage proposition, you exhale smoke, feeling the lightheaded orgasmic chill come over your head as you saunter through the gardens, staring at the koi pond beneath the bridge.</p><p><em>Right</em>.</p><p>All those hungry little fish with their beady little eyes—you lean in closer, and closer, and <em>closer</em>, puckering your lips at them, feeling the railing of the bridge dig deep into your ribs--</p><p>And then you promptly fall into the pond with a <em>splash!</em></p><p>It’s a mighty stupid thing to do -- to try and inhale air while underwater -- but you’re not thinking, and that’s <em>exactly</em> what you do, and suddenly your lungs are filling with liquid, <em>you’re choking</em>, and when you surface on the other side, you’re splashing around like a fish out of water. (Oh, the pitiful irony. The old bards could sing songs about your stupidity and you would thank them.)</p><p>Someone grabs you by the scruff of your robes, pulling you up like a mother cat and her kitten before dragging you to shore on a very uncomfortable bed of pebbles. <em>You’re ruining </em>the spirals of the rock garden, all zen-likeness completely lost in the struggle, but you’re so hungry to breathe you literally do not give a flying fuck.</p><p>You're coughing and hacking -- you're pretty sure you might throw up a lung at this rate -- and whatever high you had is completely gone because you're <em>cold</em>, desperately so, and you're completely soaked to the core.</p><p>“Oi. Are you OK?”</p><p>You blink away tears, looking up to find Izuna staring right back at you.</p><p>He looks like his older brother, if anything, a bit on the thinner side. He's all lean muscle, but with the way his robes hang on his shoulders, he looks like a skeleton. Still, he has his father's eyes -- tired, <em>yearning</em>, cursed with searching for something he'll never find.</p><p>“I'm fine,” you say, wrangling yourself up from the garden of pebbles, as you drip at least ten pounds of water from your robes, <em>like a waterfall cascading nonstop from every fiber of your being</em>. “Don't tell the elders. And d<em>on’t tell my mother</em>.”</p><p>You’re the one who recognizes him first before he recognizes you. But when he <em>does</em> recognize you, he scoffs. Staring at you in disbelief. “Your eyes are completely bloodshot. You’re higher than a kite,” he laughs, and you realize you quite like the sound of his laugh. It’s boyish and light and you can tell he’s genuinely enjoying himself, albeit at your expense. “Well then, go ahead now. <em>Run away</em>. Foolish girl."</p><p>“Foolish? <em>Me</em>?” You say, batting your lashes like you're none-the-wiser, only to drop the facade when you realize he's rolling his eyes at you. “Whatever. I'm gonna go look at the stars and just…think about life.” Life and its utter, <em>utter</em> futility. “This never happened, you never saw me, I was never here, and for all intents and purposes you don’t know who I am.”</p><p>You step back onto the pathway, turning your heel to leave, but he puts a hand on your shoulder before you can take one step forward.</p><p>"You're forgetting something."</p><p>You turn back around to see <em>your pipe</em> in his mouth. He takes a drag, <em>coughing</em>, smoke flushing out his nostrils, before he lets out one deep exhale. "Thanks for the free hemp," he tells you.</p><p>"You're so not welcome," you reply, taking the pipe from his hands before sauntering off alone.</p><p>*</p><p>You weren't lying when you said you would go star-gazing.</p><p>Out on the edge of the gates, far back where no one can find you, you watch.</p><p>On the other side, people are laughing, singing songs by the fire. Children are playing tag, laughing and screeching. A world of incessant loudness, incessant gossip, and incessant joy. Crazy how the only thing separating you and another life is a gate.</p><p>You take another drag from your pipe, feeling your lungs shrivel inside out, <em>prickly and fogged</em>, until you exhale. The effect is hardly the same at this point because you're wet, <em>you're soggy</em>, and you're shivering. All your energy is being spent on staying warm and there's absolutely nothing left over for pleasure <em>or getting high</em>.</p><p>"Well, well, well, look who we have here."</p><p>Madara apparates before you, staring out into the distance at the horizon, where the earth meets the sky in one fine black line. Had it been under more normal circumstances, you probably would've shrieked in terror. But you're faded, so all you can do is look at him and sigh.</p><p>"Ugh."</p><p>"Ugh? <em>Ugh</em>?" He looks genuinely offended, squinting at you. "You know I've killed men for lesser offenses."</p><p>"Go ahead then. Kill me," you state, though you have no doubt in your mind he probably would if your mother wasn't Uchiha Kiyo. When he takes the empty space next to you, keeping a wedge of distance clear, you roll your eyes. "Coward."</p><p>"My brother said you killed two koi," he says. "I had to see it myself to believe it."</p><p>"Well, go ahead, take a look." You tell him, doing a little mock bow, which is evidently much harder when you're sitting hunched over your own two feet. "Check out the moron who fell into pond. Laugh at her utter buffoonery, go ahead now, I'm waiting.</p><p>But he doesn't laugh, though those eyes of his are smug and unrelenting as he sizes you up. "So glum, aren't you? You're like a storm cloud of mundanity and boredom. I <em>pity</em> you."</p><p>"I pity me too," you reply. "I'm the one who has to marry a pig farmer."</p><p>"Oh? Enlighten me."</p><p>"Haruto," you say. "Son of Uchiha Marin."</p><p>He snorts, "You have a grave robber on your hands."</p><p>"A grave robber?" You blink, wondering if you've missed something. <em>If he really means what you think he means</em>. "No way he's a thief--"</p><p>"--he prefers the company of older women."</p><p>Oh, that kind of grave robber.</p><p>"Fascinating," you say, though you don't sound very fascinated at all. In fact, you're rather desperate to stop thinking about this, <em>to stop worrying at all</em>, so you look at him, squinting your eyes at him in the darkness while a chill runs down your spine that feels like droplets of water. "Are you betrothed too?"</p><p>"I am."</p><p>"Do tell."</p><p>"Sachio," he says.</p><p>You're surprised he doesn't put up more of a fight, but it wears off quicker than you expect when you truly digest the sound of that name. "Oh my god, I feel sorry for you," you laugh, leaning back on your elbows to stare at the sky. "She's a total prude."</p><p>Smug as ever with that condescending expression, Madara shrugs, "Every woman is a prude until I get them in a bed."</p><p>You give him <em>a look</em>, giving a chance to change his mind about saying a very stupid and embarrassing thing aloud, but he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. Because he actually believes it. "I change my mind," you tell him. "She's the one I feel sorry for now."</p><p>He smirks, "I'd have you crying in pleasure too."</p><p>"You're so stupid it's actually unbelievable," you go on, already feeling sick of this conversation. You literally can't believe this is the man who's going to lead your clan -- this is the man who's responsible for all these lives, <em>your life</em>, the lives of the future. You're still ambivalent about children, but what kind of world are you bringing them into with him at the helm?</p><p>"Call me stupid again and see what happens," he says, and when you blink at him slowly, one eye at a time like a sloth, he grunts. "Forget I even said anything. You look pitiful."</p><p>"<em>You</em> look pitiful."</p><p>"Ironic. Because between the two of us, I'm not the one who fell into a koi pond," he snaps, never quite missing a beat as he looks at the open seams of your neckline.</p><p>You're not sure what compels you to do it, but you clench your fist, ready to hammer it into his forehead--</p><p>--only to have him catch you by the wrist. He does it with such ease it's like he's scratching an itch on his nose, so fundamental and more importantly, instinctual.</p><p>"You're so weak it's pathetic," he says, but there's absolutely no resolve in that smug tone for once and when you try to pull away from him, he tightens his his grip around your wrist and actually smirks. "It hurts to look at you. Truly."</p><p>"If it hurts so much, then <em>why are you here</em>."</p><p>He releases you just as you're fighting to pull back, so you end up toppling backwards into the guardrail, where you bump the back of your head with a wet <em>thwack</em>. The pain seizes you, jolting through every nerve of your body, through every fiber of your being, and when you open your eyes, you realize the stars in the sky aren't the only stars you're seeing funny.</p><p>"Marrying for love is stupid," you say, somewhat breathlessly as you try to gather yourself. "That's what mother tells me."</p><p>He doesn't answer and you can't see him to read what he's thinking. Which is fine. You're not in the mood to see if he's thinking at all.</p><p>"I wish I could be stupid," you exhale, a wish lost in the winds of change that'll never come true.</p><p>There's a moment of silence that comes and you wonder if he's still there, only to feel him getting up near your feet. “You’re going to get sick,” he says, and there’s some shuffling of clothes you’re not privy to as you lay there, staring at the empty vastness of the world above you.</p><p>He dumps his robes on top of your head in a heap.</p><p>You pull it off your face and you get a whiff of his scent. Musty, like a wet cellar after it rains. But it <em>is</em> warm with his body heat, and the closer you hug it to your chest, the more you feel your insides squirm, as if coming back to life after taking an ice bath in the koi pond.</p><p>You can hear him make his way down the ladder, back towards the compound.</p><p>And when you feel around for your pipe, you realize he’s taken it. <em>Probably for good reason</em>. No doubt you’d probably fall off the gate if you were to smoke any more hemp tonight.</p><p>Still. <em>You have to think about it</em>.</p><p>Maybe marrying for love <em>is</em> stupid. But marrying for anything less than love is even stupider.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. and summer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mother drops a tiny knapsack in front of you at the tea table, “An aphrodisiac,” she states plainly, and you instinctively feel your innards <em>curdle</em> at the sound because you already know what it means. “You’ll need it for your bedding ceremony.”</p><p>"I'm sure Haruto--"</p><p>"It's for <em>you</em>."</p><p>Ah.</p><p>Slowly, as if assessing your options only to come up empty, you take the knapsack, feeling the powdery substance beneath the silken container as you meet mother’s gaze across the table. “This is a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it? I thought this kind of stuff was reserved for old men and their—well, you know. Whatever helps the little one, right?”</p><p>"Aphrodisiacs don't discriminate between genders," says mother, sounding very bored as she crosses her arms across her chest. "Take one spoonful with your tea an hour before the bedding. No more, no less. And you should be sufficiently prepared."</p><p>Prepared? You wonder. <em>Prepared for what?</em></p><p>"What happens if I take more?" You ask. "What happens if I smoke it?"</p><p>Her face contorts into something of irritation, a bulging vein poking out from her otherwise immaculate forehead. "Must you ask me such stupid questions?"</p><p>You smile, tucking the knapsack into your belt before leaning over the table once more. “You're no fun." And you mean it. She really is no fun at all. "So when do I get the pleasure of meeting this lovely pig farmer of mine?”</p><p>“The night of your wedding.”</p><p>Oh, well. “That’s a shame,” you say, though it feels more like crushing disappointment, perhaps anxiousness, as you pour mother a cup of tea. You're trying to find something to do with your hands because the alternative is so much worse. “I suppose I ought to prepare myself a gown at the tailor, make arrangements to have some friends join in the processions, and pack my—”</p><p>“It’s all been taken care of,” says mother. “You’re to move outside these gates after the ceremony and live a quiet life with his family."</p><p>“Outside the gates?” You echo, feeling a thrum in your heart that stings of disappointment and excitement in equal measure. “Surely, you don’t—”</p><p>“I do,” says mother, forgoing the tea altogether to take your hands in hers. She hesitates—which is somewhat concerning because mother <em>never hesitates</em>—but she does, which gives you reason to pause, even as something snippy is sitting on the edge of your tongue. “Your life will be easy. <em>Simple</em>. It won’t be the life you expect, but it’ll be a life with no troubles.”</p><p>Her fingers are cold and worn like old leather. There are no callouses there -- your mother has never been one for stitching or handiwork -- but you feel the exhalation of lifetime of scars underneath that pale white skin anyway.</p><p>You lower your gaze, “What if I don’t want easy? What if I want something more?" <em>Something interesting?</em> <em>Something better than this?</em></p><p>She looks at you, disappointed. And slowly, but surely, she starts detangling her fingers from yours, pulling back until she’s resumed her seat in the upright position. “I’m trying to stop you from making the same mistakes I did when I was your age,” she says, and one has to wonder how that’s possible when there’s no one in your vicinity you could ever consider loving and throwing it all away for. “You’ll want something more in life until you don’t, and by then, it’ll be too late.”</p><p><em>I wish you would let me make my own mistakes</em>, you think—and maybe that’s the tragedy: mothers with all the wisdom in the world, and daughters who simply won’t listen.</p><p>You stand, “I’m off to wash up,” you tell her, looking away towards the courtyard because you’re finding it hard to meet her gaze now that she's resumed to offer a daily dose of disappointment in you. "Goodbye, mother."</p><p>*</p><p>The women in the bathhouse are gushing over their new beaus.</p><p>You can hear them giggling over the good soaps, throwing their head backs to laugh at some dirty joke made at the expense of their to-be husbands. As you wade through the water, finding yourself a quiet corner by the handmaids, who blush and giggle upon your arrival, you heave a sigh.</p><p>One has to wonder how much of it is a façade. Yes, there are many good men in this clan, but surely not enough to go around twice—and it isn’t as if you’ve forgotten the way these same women wailed and cried as children when their fates were resigned to some all-knowing plans from the elders. But what is being a woman but putting on a performance for the world to see? The idle dancing monkey who stops only when no one is watching.</p><p>“Oh, to be Sachio-<em>hime</em>, married to the most volatile man in the clan. Surely you’ll be able to put a leash on that foul temper of his.”</p><p>“I put one on my father, didn’t I?”</p><p>Sachio, you learn, is outspoken among the others—popular. Beautiful in every facet. Her face is delicate looking, she has wide-eyes, and her lips are small like a rosebud. But her family name precedes her: and the fact that you even know of her is because of her lineage.</p><p>The daughter of Uchiha Tenzen, legendary righthand to Lord Tajima. It’s said in his heyday he toppled entire families with a single jutsu and commanded the attention of every court lady with a single look. Handsome, deliciously charismatic, and strong. The pillars of any successful man worth a damn in this clan.</p><p>And Sachio--Sachio is his spitting image. Beautiful and elegant, but just as she steps out of the bath, no doubt finished after cleansing for an hour, she steals a gaze at one of the handmaids next to you that lasts a little too long to be accidental.</p><p>Oh?</p><p>For what it's worth, the handmaid looks back at her.</p><p>It's...longing.</p><p> <em>Oh</em>.</p><p>You hum, lowering yourself into the chasm of the water, peering over at her over the edge of the bath. You think everyone must have secrets. You do, <em>mother surely does</em>, and Sachio is no different.</p><p>Too bad all secrets come to die inside these gates.</p><p>*</p><p>The afternoon should be an hour of leisure, but all you can think about is the aphrodisiac attached to your waistband and how you’ll soon be the one pleasuring a man you hardly know. Everyone wants to dance around it, but sex is always the elephant in the room. An expectation that's turned into the inevitable. It's your duty -- and the elders are content letting you believe it's an honor -- but so rarely are the nine months that follow considered a burden.</p><p>You take towards the gate, climbing up until you’re staring out at the village on the other side. It's quiet this time of day -- only the children are out and about, running and shrieking, playing a game of tag that everyone else is content to ignore.</p><p><em>You thought you wanted a life outside these gates</em>, but on your own terms. On your own rules. What's one gate to another, you think, staring out at the pig farm, fenced off from the other houses.</p><p>“Ugh.” At the sound of the voice, you jerk up, looking over your shoulder to find Madara staring down at you with his arms folded over his chest. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“What am <em>I</em> doing here?” You state. “This is <em>my spot</em>.”</p><p>“Your spot? This entire clan belongs to me.”</p><p>"That is so not how it works," you reply, as you settle back into your seat, leaning against the guardrail while staring out at the tiled houses outside these gates. The never-ending horizon in sight of a world you’ve yet to know.</p><p>He snorts, "Begone. I have things to think about."</p><p>“No. I was here first. Besides, I’m about to run,” you say with no resolve in your voice. “Really, <em>really</em> far away. Where no one can find me." You look up at him, upside-down. "Not even <em>you</em>."</p><p>“Oh?" He looks bemused, chuckling, a deep rumble in his chest that sounds like he's laughing <em>at you</em> in a joke you're not even a part of. "That's a bold claim."</p><p>“Yeah. And I’m going to get really old. Like, so pruned that you can’t recognize me,” you go on, very aware that your spiel is sounding stupider and stupider by the moment. “I’m going to get old, get high, and die in a grave made of hemp and liquor.”</p><p>“In that order.”</p><p>“Yes, in that order,” you tell him, smiling as he takes a seat next to you. “I’m going to smoke until I’m high in the afterlife, and then I’m going to be reborn high as a kite."</p><p>A moment of silence passes as he stares out into the distance, frowning. Something undeniably on his mind. “Your turn,” you tell him, shriveling up into yourself as the wind comes sifting through your still-wet hair, sending a shiver down your spine that very much devolves into something painful.</p><p>He considers it a moment before continuing, “My betrothed won’t even look at me.”</p><p>No doubt because she’s looking at someone else, you think, yawning slightly as you look over at him. Hunched over on one knee, a thinking man. As if assessing the situation will do anything to change it. Men are truly denser than the woods.</p><p>“Perhaps you ought to spend more time with her.” It’s a silly little offer, albeit one tried and true—probably the exact words he wants to hear. “I’m sure she’ll start looking your way…one day.”</p><p>He meets your gaze, looking strangely offended, only to concede a sigh when he realizes you don't even care. “Your insincerity is painful,” he states, coldly, but looks completely rattled and unlike himself when he takes a breath to go on. “It’s as if she prefers someone else’s company, even when we’re in a room filled with family and friends.”</p><p>You’re pretty sure he doesn’t give a shit about what you think and you’re pretty sure you owe it to Sachio to keep that part of her life quiet. You might not know her, but you’ll keep her secrets. An unspoken covenant of the sisterhood that you had so unwillingly joined.</p><p>“You’re the damned leader, aren't you? You can do whatever you want, marry whomever you want. You can choose to forgo marriage altogether,” you say at last when you see him mulling—<em>mulling like he’s actually concerned</em>, which is a bad look for him. "The elders don't decide your fate. <em>You</em> do."</p><p>A look of realization dawns on his face, so profound and knowing like he's just discovered some secret recipe to reinventing the wheel.</p><p>Job done. You brush off your hands before securing the little pouch around your waistband. "Anyway, I'm leaving now," you state, somewhat cheerfully because putting him in place has somehow put you in a better mood.</p><p>“I thought it was time for mutual complaints,” he says, jerking his gaze towards you.</p><p>"You get to marry one of the most beautiful woman in our clan and I get grandma-fucker,” you state, disbelief punching through every word as you offer him a look so full of contempt you're pretty sure you see him gulp. “We are not the same. <em>Our complaints</em> are not the same.”</p><p>Yet when you stand, you get so lightheaded you think you might just pass out. He grabs you by the wrist, “<em>Oi</em>.” And steadies you, but you rip away from him, stumbling down the ladder until you’re on even ground.</p><p>*</p><p>Back to your room you go, but with your best idea yet.</p><p>You loosen the sash around the knapsack of aphrodisiac, setting it on the high ledge of the door. It's simple: once mother comes in, the knapsack will come tumbling over, and the powder will be spirited everywhere like a snowstorm.</p><p>You’re going to give mother a taste of her own medicine. <em>This is your agency</em>.</p><p>Then she’ll understand.</p><p>Right?</p><p>So you sit and wait, staring expectantly at the door, only to hear footsteps coming down the corridor—footsteps you don't quite recognize.</p><p>The door rips opens—and the knapsack of powder comes toppling over, hitting mother on the head before dispersing into the air in a flurry. But as soon as the storm yields, as soon as everything begins to settle, you realize something with a clench in your stomach.</p><p>It’s not mother.</p><p>It’s Madara.</p><p>He coughs and hacks, powder spitting out his nostrils—he looks like a freaking ghost, covered in flour, wheezing like he’s been hit with a smoke bomb, “What the hell have you done, woman?” He hacks, barely catching his breath. The more powder that he spits out, the more that he inhales, which means...</p><p>You burst out laughing at the sight of him, holding your sides because they ache as the laughter settles into every fiber of your being until you’re keeled over. Watching him like he’s some sideshow freak who’s too deep into his silly theater act. If you can even call it one.</p><p>The greatest shinobi in the world—and he fell for the dumbest trick in the book.</p><p>You wipe away a tear from your eye, “Ah, I needed that,” you tell him. “Good luck with this.”</p><p>You sidestep him by the door, ready to leave—</p><p>Until he grabs you by the arm.</p><p>“You’re not going anywhere.”</p><p>And you blink.</p><p>He stares at you, the last vestiges of powder spewing out of his nose in a storm cloud that smells a lot like anger, <em>maybe desperation</em>? “You’re the one who did this to me. You’re the one who’s going to fix this,” he seethes, and in that moment, you can’t help but laugh again because <em>surely</em> he must be joking.</p><p>But he doesn’t laugh.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He’s not joking. He’s serious.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ok. maybe i've always wanted to write the sex pollen trope. but in the context of pre-canon naruto. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. laughing with you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You stare at the very obvious tent in Madara’s pants before meeting his gaze.</p><p>“I may not be the portrait of a perfect to-be wife, but I’m definitely not a cheater,” you state plainly, trying to rip your arm away from his grasp. “Good luck!”</p><p>It takes substantially more strength than you expect because when he finally lets go, the force of your fight has you stumbling back into the screen walls with a <em>crash</em>.</p><p>He squints at you in utter disbelief, in <em>disgust</em>, as you gather yourself from the ground to regain whatever composure and dignity you have left, “Oh now suddenly you have <em>morals</em>?”</p><p>You shrug, feeling the ache in your arm where he’d grabbed you. “A woman has to have <em>some</em> kind of code.”</p><p>There’s little sympathy in your eyes as you cock your head at his very obvious hard-on, trying not to laugh because it would surely escalate that hideous temper of his into something you could no longer control. “Regardless, mother will return soon. You can take care of that yourself, can’t you?”</p><p>That look of disbelief melts into something of complete revilement as he looks at the empty sack of aphrodisiacs laying waste on the floor. “<em>You’re the one who did this to me</em>—you’re the one who’s going to fix it," he hisses, taking one step towards you like some shadowy, sinister creature of the night.</p><p>“Well, if you want to get technical, <em>you </em>did it to yourself. I merely provided the weapon of choice,” you quip cheerfully, but whatever humor you had begins to dissipate when you realize he’s no longer fucking around with you. <em>That look on his face like he’s poised to kill </em>as he takes another step toward you. “How was I supposed to know you were going to barge into my room?"</p><p>You take a step back, hesitant and slow, feeling the last bastion of courage fall to the wayside when you see his eyes are filled with something <em>dark</em> and muddled you can't quite read. "And—weren’t you <em>not </em>supposed to fall for the stupidest trick in the book? <em>Aren’t your shinobi senses supposed to </em>prepare for situations like this?”</p><p>He pauses.</p><p>Turns around, looks at the door where you’d hung the bag. Then he looks back at you—then at the door, <em>then back at you.</em> Like an overeager puppy being told where to---</p><p>“<strong><em>HOW DOES ONE PREPARE FOR A BAG OF APHRODESIACS TO FALL UPON THEIR HEAD?</em></strong>”</p><p>His voice <em>blares</em> through the room -- (you’re pretty sure half the compound can hear) -- and it takes every bit of strength to <em>not</em> cover your ears from the sheer impact.</p><p><em>'There goes my eardrums,’</em> you think sullenly to yourself, as you come to the startling conclusion that <em>maybe he has a point</em>. Both of you fucked up.</p><p><em>'You decided to play a bad joke</em>. He walked into said bad joke. Two halves of one circle of stupidity.</p><p>Fate is truly a cruel mistress.</p><p>“Fine. I have an idea,” you tell him, pursing your lips. “Come with me.”</p><p>Miraculously, he doesn’t fight you as you lead him out the room.</p><p>*</p><p>Steam rolls off the surface of the half-empty baths, but there's not a single soul awake, <em>not a single soul</em> aware of what's about to transpire--what both of you are about to do.</p><p>As you strip behind the cubbies, you can see Madara through the gaps in the middle of undressing.</p><p>His muscles ripple through the fabric of his undershirt, and it isn't until everything's off that you realize half his abdomen is covered in bandages.</p><p>Still, he's fit. All lean muscle, not a single ounce of fat to be spared. His shoulders are broad, his arms are <em>huge</em>, and every part of him is cut like a statue from the olden days, an idealized male specimen, albeit one covered in scars and wounds left unhealed.</p><p>You look away, “If you say a word of this—”</p><p>“—yeah, yeah. As if you have any more to lose than I.” He sharpens his gaze around the bath, undoing the sash of his pants before letting it drop to a heap on the floor around his ankles. “How are you so sure no one will show up at this hour?”</p><p>“Because I’m friends with the bath ladies who manage the front of house,” you say, earning yourself a look of complete skepticism that makes you mutter something like, “because I’m friends with the bath ladies and because I promised them two silvers in exchange for their keys.”</p><p>“You’re a moron," he says with absolutely zero resolve.</p><p>“Who's the moron following said moron's orders after you fell for the same moron’s trick,” you snap, no bite in your quip at all as you peel away your outer robes, beginning with the sash of your obi—followed by the inner coat. “I wonder what that makes you.”</p><p>He looks at you and <em>growls</em>.</p><p>You return that look, unimpressed, “A dog, apparently.”</p><p>He looks like he’s about to fight you again, but apparently the pain of his giant erection is enough to hold him back as he arches his neck, letting out a wounded groan that sounds like he’s in the middle of being cut alive.</p><p>“<em>Stop talking, woman</em>,” he hisses. “You’re giving me a headache.”</p><p><em>‘Along with a different kind of ache between the legs, but that’s none of my business,’</em> you think, whistling a cheerful tune as you fold your robes and tuck them into the cubby.</p><p>You keep your underdress on, taking care to avoid his very obvious naked (<strong>see</strong>: sculpted, lean, <em>dimpled</em>—but what does that matter? <em>You’re not looking</em>, you tell yourself) body as he wades into the biggest bath, half-filled, barely making a splash in the water.</p><p>“You’re going to keep your clothes on?” He snorts, taking a seat at the edge while cradling his erection gently as if it's some priceless treasure to be coddled and cared for. “Prude.”</p><p>“Call me what you want, but I’m not kissing you,” you state plainly, remembering your marriage vows and the inevitability of pledging yourself to a different man. “And I’m not fucking you either.”</p><p>“Whatever. Just come here and get this over with.”</p><p>You wade slowly into the bath, water reaching only your knees, and immediately feel the cloth of your underdress soak up heavy with weight. It’s warm in here, dreadfully so, and you feel like you’re about to burst from the heat--or melt. You're not sure which one is worse.</p><p>And you don't know it yet but you look like something out of an old legend—a water faerie—and as the water continues seeping through from the bottom up, the front of your robes are going transparent, the outline of your breasts on full display as you come closer and closer to a man who looks like he couldn’t give half a crap about you.</p><p>You pause before him, clutching your dress to your chest because it's beginning to sag where it's wet, dragging down where it shouldn't.</p><p>He doesn't look at you, face flushed from the heat, "Well? What're you waiting for?"</p><p>"Stop rushing me," you hiss, that initial daze vanishing in an instant as you glare at him. "Unless you want me to call your dearest Sachio to help you figure this out."</p><p>Apparently that's all it takes because he clamps his mouth shut.</p><p>
  <em>'That's what I thought.'</em>
</p><p>Slowly, you crawl onto his lap, straddling him, feeling his very obvious hard-on press up against your stomach as he looks away towards some invisible darkness you don't see. His face is beet red, but he looks simultaneously unimpressed at you, so one has to wonder if all that bravado is just for show.</p><p>
  <em>'A dog is a dog is a dog is a dog...'</em>
</p><p>Surely it must be. His chest’s puffed, arms hung on the edge of the bath like it’s just another day of relaxation.</p><p>“Stop staring and <em>hurry up</em>.”</p><p>“Don’t talk to me like one of your whores,” you snap, hands hesitant as you study the scars on his chest.</p><p>Some of them are hideous—as if carved by an amateur sculptor with an anvil made of rust. Others are jagged, deep enough to look like it’s still bleeding. You run your finger against one particularly long one—that goes from his armpit to his lower abdomen. It’s shallow, pink, and when you apply enough pressure, it elicits a gasp—</p><p>“What are you doing?” He hisses, grabbing you by the wrist.</p><p>He's just gentle enough not to actually hurt you, even as he stares at you with all the contempt in the world. It's an odd phenomenon, one you'll surely look back on with irritation, because there's nothing more unseemly than a man who has to restrain himself in front of a woman who simply doesn't care.</p><p>“I'm admiring how pathetic you look,” you state, all sympathy lost as you try to wrestle away from his grasp, only to go toppling backwards—</p><p>He grabs you by your hips, steadying you as you regain your balance.</p><p>He smirks, “I’m beginning to think you’re afraid.”</p><p>Fair enough. You’re no virgin, but you’re not exactly the experienced mistress either. Generally, you already know the person you're sleeping with. With Madara, it's a lesson in sobriety--counting down the seconds because you're not quite sure where you stand with him.</p><p>He's attractive--but that seems like a moot point given his other gaping contradictions.</p><p>“Do they hurt?” You ask, softly, sounding strangely compassionate and even more strangely unlike yourself as your gaze falls to the wounds of a time past, some still wrapped in bandages. The nakedness, of course, is all but forgotten when you’re looking into what could've been his death knell.</p><p>“No.” He cranes his neck back, feet splashing in the water behind you. “Not anymore.”</p><p>You consider what he says, weighing his words like precious stones, wondering just how many blades have carved themselves underneath his skin, <em>through flesh and bone</em>—how many blades lived to tell the tale? How many blades have tried and failed to kill this man, only vanish with their stories left untold?</p><p>You let your hand trail down, pausing at the dip of his sculpted stomach—right where his bellybutton sits. Then, like a spider, your fingers crawl until you’re wrapped around the shaft of his cock, pulsing with blood and desperate for release.</p><p>Your thumb brushes against the tip, spreading the bud of precum against the vein.</p><p><em>The most powerful man in the world</em>, you think, quietly as he cranes his neck even farther back, uttering a soft groan.</p><p><em>The most powerful man in the world and all it takes is one moment</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>You don’t look at each other after, well—<em>after the incident</em>.</p><p>In fact, you’ve done a bang-up job avoiding him altogether, which is much easier said than done because that involves avoiding all your favorite places in the compound. You avoid the gates, you avoid the gardens, and you avoid generally being in his vicinity, but he almost always catches you when you’re not looking, which means your relationship has devolved into a very <em>annoying</em> game of cat and mouse.</p><p>“STOP RUNNING,” he seethes, stalking towards you one day in the garden as you sprint away, past the group of ministers—past another group of elders on their afternoon stroll of leisure.</p><p>"I don't know you, <em>go away</em>," you hiss over your shoulder.</p><p>He bowls over them like a battering ram. Say what you will about Madara, but the sheer size of him makes the compound an inopportune place for him to move, what with so many eyes on him, <em>so many elders watching his every move</em>, and so many responsibilities in wait.</p><p>In many ways, you have the advantage.</p><p>So you slip away into the courtyard while the vultures surround him in the garden—<em>Madara-sama, have you seen the recent reports? Madara-sama, have you decided on a wedding date? Madara-sama, have you—</em>and pester him with enough questions to make his head explode.</p><p>Senbi: 1<br/>
Madara: 0</p><p>*</p><p>“Ah—you’re cornered yet again,” you declare, abstaining from completely losing yourself in victory and laughing in the minister’s face as the game of shogi sits finished before you. “Shall we start keeping a scoreboard? How many ounces of hemp is that you owe me?”</p><p>“Gloating is unbecoming of a woman,” he states, somewhat haughtily as he stands up from his seat.</p><p>“Or perhaps a list,” you state. “So you can tell me what exactly is <em>becoming</em> of a woman.”</p><p>All at once, the chatter around you falls to a hush.</p><p>Oh, it’s Sachio. Standing behind you. Oh.</p><p>Her face is totally serene, calm in a way that yours isn’t—she offers the minister before you a cordial smile before taking his seat as he takes his leave. <em>Coward</em>.</p><p>She dusts off the lap of her robes, crosses her ankles, and turns to the board of scrambled <em>shogi</em> you have before you. “Shall we play a game?” She says, and before you even get the chance to answer, she starts collecting the pieces to set out. “I heard you’re quite skilled."</p><p>“I’m afraid my reputation precedes whatever little skill I have,” you tell her, sounding remarkably modest for a girl who’s just won two pounds of hemp. "The mistress of luck has always been kind to me."</p><p>She looks somewhat skeptical, laughing behind her sleeve, “We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>The ministers are utterly quiet, watching the game like it’s yet another funeral procession as Sachio puts down the winning move with a smile.</p><p>“You win,” you say, softly, placing the sack of hemp on the table as a half-measure.</p><p><em>You win—please take this token as my apology for jerking off your husband-to-be</em>.</p><p>But none of the ministers are reacting. They’re completely quiet. Most of them are dispersing, staring at you—and you have to wonder: <em>do they know? Surely they know, otherwise they wouldn’t be staring at me</em>. And then you shift your gaze to Sachio—because if <em>they</em> know then surely <em>she knows</em>, which means <em>everyone knows</em>, which means—</p><p>“You lost on purpose, no?” She says, pushing back the sack of hemp. “Go ahead, take it.”</p><p>Oh?</p><p>You hesitate, weighing the leaves in your hands before assessing the space between you once more, as you watch the last few old men disperse and vanish. "How'd you know?" You ask, feeling a smile form on your face as you begin to relax in your seat.</p><p>"Because you lost on the same move you just won with," she says, a curl of amusement on her face as she studies the board with a discerning eye.</p><p>Ah, so she'd been testing you too. No matter, you think, stiffening your spine. Even if she does know about what happened in the bathhouse, that's no reason for her to go blabbering about it.</p><p>"Well, that's it for me tonight," she tells you, standing up. "Just wanted to get to know you. See what kind of woman you were."</p><p>Oh? It sounds veiled, but you can tell she means it from the way she looks at you.</p><p>From your pouch, you unearth a single coin before motioning to the sack of hemp still sitting on the table, “Heads—you join me.”</p><p>She looks bemused. “And if it’s tails?”</p><p>“You keep the hemp.”</p><p>She smiles.</p><p>*</p><p>Time slows down atop the gate as you study your hands, wondering if your fingers have always been that long—if your nails have always been so loose. As if one little snap can have it crumbling away into dunes of sand, into your bloodstream, <em>into your heart—</em></p><p>“I’ve been with other people. More than I’d like to admit.” You swallow the lump in your throat—a lump that feels like it’s wedged thick inside your glands, threatening to cut open into ribbons. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. I don’t even know what that would feel like—if I could recognize it if it hit me. To be honest, I don’t think I even love my mother.”</p><p>Sachio exhales smoke, sliding the pipe into the empty space between you two before resuming her position lying down—staring up at the stars in full bloom. “You don’t love your mother? That's...messed up.” She sounds oddly hurt by the revelation, only to release a giggle that devolves into a full-on set of hiccups.</p><p>She’s laughing, which somehow makes you laugh, even though the morbidity of your revelation is not quite lost on you.</p><p>And then it’s silent, at least for a while, as you try and digest what you've just admitted aloud. Because while you're racked with guilt, you can't quite say it's untrue either.</p><p>“Does your mother know?” You ask, staring up at the stars, feeling a wave of sobriety hit you like a full-on tsunami wave as you reach for the pipe between you two again. “Have you told her?”</p><p>You think about the handmaiden, the bath, and wonder just how many others have caught those longing gazes in the hall. <em>Or how many have caught them only to look away with purpose. </em>To willingly misinterpret what they meant. Truthfully, it’s a worrying revelation, what with her father, her name, and the legacy she’s destined to carry. It almost makes you pity her.</p><p>“Of course not.” Her eyes are completely shot, red as can be, and when she meets your gaze, you have to physically restrain yourself from breaking out into laughter again. “What about you? Does <em>your</em> mother know?”</p><p>“Dearest Sachio, I’m very sorry to say I’m attracted to cocks.”</p><p>“—<em>does she know about Madara</em>,” she scoffs—but that scoff devolves into something of a giggle before it turns into <em>raucous laughter</em>. “Thanks for that, by the way. You took one for the team.”</p><p>Ah, so there you have it. She <em>has</em> been avoiding him in bed. In a way, you really did take one for the team, though you find it hard to admit was a burden at all.</p><p>“A shame I’m already betrothed to someone else. Such is fate,” you say, only realizing how <em>damning</em> that is after the fact. “How did you find out? Did he tell you?”</p><p>“He chases you through the garden—chases you through the compound. I’m not so daft as to think he’s chasing a debt,” she states, brushing away the wrinkles in her robes. “You may fool the other ministers, though. They’re blind to whatever they want to be blind to. The life of a geezer through and through, content to get by doing nothing and saying nothing.”</p><p>But her eyes twinkle when she meets your gaze, “He fancies you.”</p><p>Somewhere deep inside, you <em>already</em> know. And yet your natural instinct is to resist the temptation of acting. Because you have a fate sealed—albeit one against your own will. “Maybe in another life things could’ve been different,” you throw out, all whimsy and cheer as you watch the stars blink above you. “Though that temper of his is a problem. Evidently, mine might be worse. A recipe for disaster if I've ever seen one."</p><p>“Oh, come now. He’s all bark, no bite—and you know it.” She takes a breath. "You are too."</p><p>You smile despite yourself, looking over at Sachio to see her smiling. Like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. She reaches for the pipe again, inhaling smoke, only to exhale through her nostrils while her eyes water red.</p><p>“I’m going to run away one day,” she says, suddenly. “Far, far away. Where no one can find me. Not even my father and his legion of buffoonish retainers."</p><p>“Are we baring our souls now? Telling each other our dreams—our deepest aspirations?”</p><p>"We are." Sachio turns on her side to face you. “Your turn.”</p><p>“I want to live an easy life, filled with no trouble, and when I die—I hope it’s peaceful, in my sleep. I have no ambitions, no aspirations, no dreams.”</p><p>And mother has made that abundantly clear—marrying you to a pig farmer so you can live out the rest of your days with ease. Carry his children for years to come. Die peacefully in a sleeping bed made of feathers.</p><p>You know, instinctively, your mother wants you to have a life she never had.</p><p>Sachio pauses, studying your face before looking back up at the sky.</p><p>“I don’t believe you.”</p><p>For the record, neither do you.</p><p>But neither of you acknowledge that fact again, content with just staring at the endless void of black above--hoping it might swallow you whole.</p><p>"He's going to call off our marriage," she says, suddenly, a certain vagueness in her face when she turns to look at you again. "He told me last night and told the elders this morning."</p><p>Ah. That's probably why all the ministers were staring in the courtyard. They weren't looking at you--they were looking at <em>her</em>.</p><p>Your immediate instinct is to offer an apology -- because this isn't what you wanted; you didn't want to compromise her future like this -- but you can't quite help but feel a swell of relief where the guilt is too.</p><p>"That's why I wanted to meet you," she interjects before you get the chance, looking away. "To thank you."</p><p>Oh.</p><p>She reaches for your hand, linking fingers with you. Her skin is soft, smooth--just like yours.</p><p>Untouched by the sands of time, untouched by the wears of war.</p><p>You give her hand a squeeze and turn back to the sky.</p><p>"You owe me one," you say with no resolve.</p><p>She laughs.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i know im late but hey u can check out this <a href="https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/">link</a> it's kind of important</p><p>i said this on a few of my other stories but BLM is all im gonna be <a href="https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt">tweeting abt</a></p><p>also thinking abt taking a few commissions if u match any one of my donations to BLM groups, not sure if ppl wud be interested in that but lmk</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. where we begin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“As much as it pains me to say it, I really look forward to working with you.”</p><p>Madara looks the other way, “Speak for yourself.”</p><p>“I literally just did.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So what happens next?”</p><p>Sachio dots your face with her brush, leaving a giant black-painted mole on your cheek that looks more and more like a gaping hole as she continues swirling the edges. “The elders will likely decide on another for me to marry in the coming weeks,” she says, humming a dreamy tune. “No doubt some military man in blue at the behest of my father.”</p><p>You study her face—it’s indifferent, a far cry from what she should probably be feeling. Out of the frypan and into the fire, through and through. “I’m guessing that’s not what you want," you say, trying not to feel sorry for her because you, too, are facing a similar plight.</p><p>She scoffs. “When do we <em>ever</em> get what we want here?”</p><p>"Point taken."</p><p>You take a glance at yourself in your hand mirror before gaping, “<em>HEY! You said you would make me pretty, you liar!</em>” As you reach out to snatch the brush from her hand, she retracts it—lightning fast—like a damned feral cat.</p><p>“You’re already pretty,” she says, dotting another black hole on your forehead before reaching for your chin, where she draws three lines to make a goatee. “Haruto won’t be able to take his eyes off you tonight.”</p><p>“You’re going to send him to an early grave,” you tell her, studying her work-in-progress before lowering the mirror.</p><p>“I’m sure he’d like that,” says Sachio—and <em>what the hell</em>—does everyone in this clan know he’s a grave robber except you? “My handmaid Hana is better at things like this,” she tacks on, betraying little in her face in the way of joy. "She once told me that the weapon of a good woman lies in her rouge."</p><p>"Your handmaid sounds very wise."</p><p>"She is."</p><p>“Perhaps I ought to seek her counsel then,” you state, sounding not at all subtle about it as you forgo the mirror, looking down from the overlook to see a returning party of men from the gates. Smaller in numbers than when they left. Each one of them looking more indisposed than the next.</p><p>“Do you ever think about the fact that no woman in our clan is taught the art of defense?” You ask, suddenly, watching one of them come in wearing an arm brace stained with day's old blood. “We're like birds trapped in the cage. They'll teach us old witticisms and make us memorize poetry, but we'll never fly."</p><p>She's quiet, as she finishes fussing your hair into a straight-laced bun.</p><p>"Sachio?"</p><p>As soon as you speak her name, she jerks up, as if remembering your words, "I wouldn't be so sure about that," she says, but it's utterly mechanical and teasing, as if she's reliving the five seconds she missed only moments ago.</p><p>You cock your head to the side, but she grabs you by the chin and forces you to look at her dead-on so she can draw in the curl of your moustache next. “Don’t tell me you know how to fight,” you deadpan, stopping just short of gaping at her.</p><p>“Of course I do. Do you know who my father is?” She says, pulling back to assess your polka-dotted face and the ugly goatee-moustache combination at the bottom half of your chin. “I can offer you some pointers, if you’d like.”</p><p>You blink, staring at her. “But they don’t allow women in the training grounds.”</p><p>She looks at the brush in her hands, then back at you. “They don’t allow women like you in the training grounds," she says. "The benefits of being the only daughter of Uchiha Tenzen."</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It means,” she laughs a little, brushing back a lock of hair away from your face, “that you should know your place in the clan, pretty bird.”</p><p>**</p><p>Guided by Sachio, you come waltzing down the hall covered in painted moles and a beard drawn in with charcoal. For what it’s worth, you make quite the pretty man, even though all you can do is stare at yourself, completely uninspired, in the passing koi pond underneath the bridge. Your robes are too big, <em>dragging behind you</em>, and had it not been for the bindings on your chest, any passing buffoon would’ve been able to see through your disguise.</p><p>"I look stupid."</p><p>"You look handsome," she says, beaming.</p><p>Into the training grounds you go—as Sachio sits you on one of the stone benches at the far end of the open grounds—far, far away from your angry clan and their restless blades. “Try not to open your mouth,” she tells you, voice set at half a whisper. “Lest your tone betrays you.”</p><p>She picks up a single kunai from the cart of weapons by the wall, flips it with a little twirl, and catches it by the handle. It’s so practiced, <em>so unobtrusive</em> that it’s actually pretty impressive.</p><p>Then she takes her place, staring at the one target (among eight) in the yard. And with one firm toss, she sends the kunai spinning.</p><p>It carves a curve in the air, hitting each and every target until they're shredded to pieces. And like a damned boomerang, it comes swinging right back into her hand, where she catches it by the handle.</p><p>You applaud.</p><p>“WOOOOOOOOO—you’re so coo—” You start singing her praises, only to promptly cut yourself off when you realize every single man in the training ground is turning to look your way with that same incredulous stare like you’ve just told them their collectively that their mothers are dead. “Ah, fuck."</p><p>Among them, Izuna manifests, doing a slow-clap that reeks of sarcasm and pity.</p><p>Sachio rolls her eyes at him, brushing her hair from her face as she meets him halfway on the training ground. “No need to patronize us,” she says, tossing the kunai back to the cart where it clatters to a stop. “We were just leaving.”</p><p>He looks amused, “Were you now?”</p><p>“Yep.” All aversions to keeping up the pretense are apparently gone, as you cross your arms and meet his gaze. “And if you know what’s good for you, <em>you’ll keep quiet about this</em>.”</p><p>He snorts, “Your threats are even less inspiring than your disguise, if you can even call it one. You look like a beggar.”</p><p>You cock a fist, but Sachio catches it before you can send it flying into his face, “What do you want from us?” She states, plainly.</p><p>“Lucky for you, I was looking for her.”</p><p>He arches a brow at your attire—at your charcoal beard and the moles on your face that are beginning to melt like tears. “It seems the elders want a word with you. Or rather they’ve been <em>wanting</em> a word with you for some time now.”</p><p>You blink, pointing to yourself dumbly, "Me?"</p><p>"Did I stutter?"</p><p>Sachio wrinkles her brows, "What do they want?"</p><p>Izuna smiles, looking very smug and annoying about it. "Well, you'll just have to see won't you?"</p><p>**</p><p>Mother’s face is utterly devoid of any emotion, which may not usually pose a problem—but you’ve gotten to know her quite well over the course of your 18 years of being alive and you know the fact that she can’t even look at you speaks volumes to how she probably feels right now.</p><p>Mitsuki and Kaiden, the Uchiha Elders, sit beside her, presiding over your attendance like they're attending a damned funeral, what the smell of incense, old people, and dead flowers in their tea.</p><p>And you--you must look pretty <em>stupid</em> outfitted like a man—outfitted like a particularly <em>ugly</em> man, what with all those gaping black moles and that beard that looks more and more like sawdust the more you sweat. Yes, you look thrillingly stupid today, but that’s probably not the reason why they’ve called you in.</p><p>The elders, after all, preside over the entire clan. Surely, they have other things to worry about than your pitiful disguise and your trip to the training grounds.</p><p>“Your wedding’s been canceled,” says Mitsuki, glowering.</p><p>"I...what?"</p><p>The wrinkles on her forehead are perpetually calloused like a statue carved. She studies your face, waiting for you to say more, and when you don't, she looks away. “Though it seems to me you’ve already received advanced notice," she says, eyes fixed on the particularly garrish mole that's indented in your left cheek.</p><p>You’re not sure what to say, and you’re aware you must look pretty stupid trying to scramble for something useful.</p><p>“Who canceled it?”</p><p>Mother, who’s been reticent up until now, hisses, “Who do you think, you idiot?”</p><p>
  <em>‘Could save me the trouble and just give me a straight answer.'</em>
</p><p>Mitsuki looks at you with all the disdain in the world, “Starting tomorrow, you’ll be serving as Madara-sama’s junior advisor.” And then she turns to mother, who seems completely nonchalant about the whole ordeal. “You’ll be working under Kiyo’s jurisdiction.”</p><p>
  <em>‘Ah, so that answers that.'</em>
</p><p>Kaiden yawns, scratching his ear, “You’re one foolish girl.”</p><p>And then he smiles when he notices it doesn't seem to faze you.</p><p>“But it seems you don’t know that yet.”</p><p>**</p><p>Mother doesn’t speak.</p><p>She just expects you to follow her—and you do, for what it’s worth, like a sad little puppy with her tail tucked between her legs—until you reach the bath, where she wrings out a towel and starts scrubbing away the grime on your face.</p><p>At some point, you’re pretty sure she’s going to drown you in the baths -- and who could blame her? All the best life plans she made for you had vanished in an instant -- and in a sorry attempt to appease to her better senses, you start rattling off insincerities: <em>you look lovely today mother; did you know that lavender really suits you?; I found your poetry in the library the other day—you were quite the wordsmith</em>.</p><p>All of which gets you a resounding glare.</p><p>Nothing makes a dent on her, not even your better compliments. She’s angry. <em>Upset</em>. And the worst part is it’s not until she starts washing your hair for you that you realize—<em>oh, maybe she just wants to clean me up</em>.</p><p>Maybe she means well after all.</p><p>She tosses a towel into your face, tells you to meet her in the tearoom after you finish changing, and leaves without another word. And you’re left alone, staring at your own reflection in the water, wondering when it is you started seeing someone you barely recognize.</p><p>**</p><p>Mother’s tea is going cold.</p><p>She’s been sitting there in silence for almost 15 minutes, ruminating. <em>Thinking</em>. You’ve offered some tranquil words of the great poet Ilin to break it, but there she sits. Completely uninspired. As if she’s considering her own death wish before considering <em>yours</em>.</p><p>“Look on the bright side,” you start, dumping her cold cup of tea into the potted plant by the window only to pour her another hot cup. “This means I won’t have to marry a grave robber—”</p><p>“You absolute moron,” she hisses, all aversions to being quiet apparently lost as she glares at you. “It means you’ll never marry again.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>You wonder if that was mother’s punishment after what happened to father. But the truth is, you never saw it as a punishment.</p><p>“Excuse me for a moment,” you say, face vacant as you stand from your seat.</p><p>“Crying about it won’t change your circumstances,” says mother placidly. "You've already dug your grave. Now deal with it."</p><p>You pause, lowering your gaze to the table.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>**</p><p>It doesn’t take you long to get to the wall—to find your favorite spot beneath the night sky, the looming stars, and the village in the distance. You climb the ladder, look out to check if you’re being followed, and take a breath.</p><p>“<strong><em>FUCK!! YES!!</em></strong>”</p><p>You’re so happy you could probably punch a wall.</p><p>
  <em>You’re so happy you can nearly burst.</em>
</p><p>You’re so happy you could probably die right now, which is a pretty remarkable thing to say because you’re on the cusp of your youth.</p><p><em>The prime of your life</em>.</p><p>“<strong><em>I WIN</em></strong>!"</p><p>"ME!"</p><p>
  <em>"I WIN!!!!" </em>
</p><p><em>"ME, I—<strong>AHHHHHHHHHHH</strong>!</em>”</p><p>A single hand slaps over your mouth as you shriek at the shadowy figure behind you.</p><p>“Your incessant screaming is giving me a headache, woman.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>It’s Madara, towering over you by the ladder of the gate with a look on his face like he has better places to be.</p><p>In fact, the sight of him alone has your knees buckling and you nearly topple backwards off the edge, but he catches you by the sleeve of your robe, reeling you back on two feet before letting go like you’re a sack of trash unworthy of his gaze or touch.</p><p>“What the fuck is wrong with you,” you hiss, clutching your chest when your heart’s beating a million miles a second. “WHO THE FUCK SNEAKS UP LIKE THAT WITHOUT SAYING ANYTHING??"</p><p>“You’re so easily startled it’s pathetic,” he says, taking a seat at the edge. And for whatever reason, <em>you decide to join him and take a seat next to him. Beaming with joy</em>. “Why are you so happy? Win another one of your pathetic shogi matches against the old codgers whose memories have failed them time and time again?”</p><p>"At least I win," you state, chewing your cheek as you think about the mass grave and the tarped bodies that'll never see the light of day again.</p><p>"I'd win too if I were stealing candy from the weak."</p><p>"If that meant winning, maybe you should.</p><p>"Unlike you, I have <em>morals</em>."</p><p>"Debatable."</p><p>You roll your eyes, hugging your knees to your chest as you follow his gaze to the never-ending horizon and the quiet village in its resting bed of the valley. “I’m happy because I don’t have to marry a pig farmer,” you state very plainly, brushing away the dust on your robes as you scoot only a little closer. “So I guess I’d have you to thank for that.”</p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>You pause, enjoying the silence. It’s actually a pretty compelling thing—what was once a point of contention between you two has suddenly turned into a space for resting and enjoyment. You feel <em>relaxed</em> here.</p><p>Until.</p><p>You peer at him, “Wait, you’re not, like, planning to force my marriage hand are you? I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and be told by Elder Mitsuki that I have a surprise wedding waiting for me in the courtyard?”</p><p>“Are you daft? Or has your imagination overgrown its limits?” His lip curls into a scowl as he meets your gaze. “Marrying you would be a complete and utter waste.”</p><p>“<em>Yeowch</em>, why do you have to say it like that? Just say it would be impractical and call it a day,” you mutter, rubbing your chin, only to find a black mark of charcoal that mother missed in the baths. “Anyway, are you looking for a princess to marry? I know a few friends out there who will probably be thrilled with the notion of marrying you.”</p><p>“You don’t have any friends.”</p><p>“Hey! I’m trying to be nice—what’s your deal?”</p><p>“You’ve been ignoring me for the past two weeks. I don’t owe you anything,” he states, coolly.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He’s <em>hurt</em>.</p><p>But he’ll be obstinate about it until his dying breath. It’s remarkable, you think, how you’ve actually gotten to know this flip-flopping psycho. Despite your feeble attempts at ignoring him, you actually <em>understand</em> him.</p><p>…or maybe your handjobs are nothing to scoff at.</p><p>“Thanks,” you tell him, finally, leaning over to press a chaste little kiss to his cheek before standing up from your perch. “As much as it pains me to say it, I really look forward to working with you.”</p><p>He looks the other way, “Speak for yourself, idiot."</p><p>“I <em>literally just did, </em>idiot."</p><p>As you move towards the ladder to retire for the night, you completely miss the blush on his cheeks that's burning bright red.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>wassup... i'm back... and im thinking about madara</p><p>let's talk about him on <a href="https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt">twitter</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. when i was happy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You know, it’s frankly kind of insulting that <em>I’m</em> the one who has to sift through all these village complaints—like, <em>I’m supposed to solve the mystery of the tipping cows?</em> Don’t we have a patrol team for menial stuff like this? This is <em>so not my speed</em>.”</p><p>“Everyone has to start somewhere,” says mother, massaging her temples. “<em>Now quit complaining</em> and get it done.”</p><p>“I’ll get it done, but I’m going to complain about it. Sorry, but that’s just a fact of life,” you say, but mother looks like she’s completely past this conversation. “I haven’t even done my pinning ceremony and I’m already working—it’s not quite fair, is it?”</p><p>“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.”</p><p>“You’re no fun.”</p><p>She sighs, but it hardly has the same effect as she stands up from your reading table, leaving you in a pile of scrolls and papers that apparently have no end. “I’ve a meeting with the elders,” she says, sparing you a look that’s indifferent and cool. “<em>Don’t</em> get yourself in trouble.”</p><p>“That goes without saying, mother.”</p><p>Still, she gives you that discerning look like she knows you better—<em>and she probably does</em>. As soon as she’s out of sight, you look back to your mountain of scrolls, decide it’s not worth it, and stand right back up to make your way to the wall, where you smack your ear against the thinnest panel to listen.</p><p>
  <em>“Surely you ought to consider Mitsuwa of the Chinoike clan. Her bloodline could be of use to us.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Pah—it’s no more but a poor derivative of our great ancestry. Useless, I’d say. Like mixing honey with sugar. Lord Tajima would sooner roll over in his grave than marry his eldest son to a wench like her.”</em>
</p><p>You roll your eyes, pressing your ear just a little harder against the wall.</p><p>
  <em>“Perhaps the Biwa of the Hagoromo Clan?”</em>
  
</p><p><em>“Perhaps your mind fails you. We’re not looking to marry into our allyships. We’re looking to </em>create<em> a new ally by marriage.”</em></p><p>“<strong>What are you doing.</strong>”</p><p>You swallow the shriek that’s about to escape your throat, which ends up with you recoiling on the ground like a mosquito that’s just been slapped by the hand of god.</p><p>“What the hell is wrong with you,” you hiss, looking up to find Izuna staring back at you with a brow cocked like he’s <em>judging you</em>. “Is it just a <em>Uchiha thing</em> to go around and never announce yourself?”</p><p>Apparently, he’s not interested in answering because he looks at the wall, then back at you like he’s already figured out your little rouse. “Why are you spying on the elders,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a question, more like a demand. Which <em>of course it is</em>. He’s <em>just</em> like his older brother.</p><p>“I’m not spying. I’m <em>bored</em>.”</p><p>He studies your face, and when he realizes you’re not joking, he face-palms, “Unbelievable. You’re an ungrateful woman, you know that?”</p><p>“Ya.” Whatever interest you had in humoring him is <em>gone</em>, as you press your ear against the wall again. “Feel free to run along, little boy. I have grown-up things to do.”</p><p>“You’re not that much older than me.”</p><p>“And yet I’m still older.”</p><p>He frowns, plopping down next to you with a look on his face like he wants to be taken seriously, which ironically enough makes you take him much less seriously. “Meddling in my brother’s love life,” he says. “Why am I not surprised?”</p><p>“Well, his love life dictates the entire future of our clan. I’d be stupid not to be interested.”</p><p>“You truly have no shame.”</p><p>“You’re absolutely right.”</p><p>
  <em>“We should stick to our blood ties.”</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Madara-sama has already said he wishes to marry outside the clan.”</em>
</p><p>“What’re they saying," he asks.</p><p>“I don’t recall inviting you to this conversation,” you reply, finding it hard to listen to what’s going on the other side of the wall while also trying to humor the humorless Izuna who’s sitting before you like an insolent child. “How about we flip a coin? Heads, you leave. Tails, you stay.”</p><p>He shrugs, and you take that opportunity to untuck the gold coin from your chest pocket. “Go ahead, I’ll even let you pick first,” you say, and he mutters a soft ‘<em>heads’</em> before you flip the coin into the air.</p><p>He watches as the coin falls into your palm, “You always base your life decisions on chance?”</p><p>"Sometimes chance is better than nothing." You flip the coin onto the back of your hand, covering it before revealing <em>tails</em>—the shoddily carved gates that surround your compound. “Hey, what do you have here? I win.” You smile joylessly as you turn back to the wall. “Now take your—”</p><p>“—who would you choose?” He interjects, dusting off his pants, apparently a man of his word. "If you were my brother?"</p><p>You consider it, tapping your chin with your finger as the voices continue speaking in a muffled hush on the other side of the wall. “Lady Takada of the Yotsuki clan," you say, at last, when the silence begins stretching into discomfort.</p><p>“And why’s that?”</p><p>“Because any dancing monkey can take a look at a map and see that her clan holds the key passage to Senju territory."</p><p>**</p><p>An unexpected perk of working as a junior advisor?</p><p>You get to travel outside the gates.</p><p>Into the fields you go—setting traps for the bandits who apparently have made it their life’s work to annoy the farmers who just want to go about their day. It’s laborious work, but it’s fruitful, and when they offer you gift baskets filled with various fruits and jams, you feel <em>glorious</em>.</p><p>And it goes on like that until the day comes to a close, until--</p><p>“<strong>Senbi</strong>?”</p><p>It’s a spritely young man, tall and lean, dressed in robes made of cotton and dyed in purple, that approaches you from the shadows of some rinky dink shack. He beams when he meets your gaze, “That’s you, isn’t it?” He says, looking very satisfied. His hair is thick, cut short at his shoulders, and he has the bone structure of some mystical faerie of old—not quite your type, but you can admire his prettiness objectively.</p><p>You blink at him, “Have we met?”</p><p>“We haven’t,” he says, suddenly looking very sheepish. “I’m Haruto. Your mother must’ve told you about me.”</p><p>“Oh—<em>oh</em>.”</p><p>Oh shit.</p><p>You wonder if he’s fucking with you—if he’s just here to be bitter about how things ended, or maybe he just wants to meet you for the first time? You decide on the former, knowing it’s your safest option. “I was just heading back."</p><p>He takes one look at your face and smiles.</p><p>“Didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to say hi,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “It’s funny how things work out, right? I mean, you and I were going to get married, having never met. And now we’re meeting under completely different circumstances.” He studies your robes. “Are you—working as a traveling magistrate or something?”</p><p>“Junior advisor, actually,” you force a laugh, glancing over your shoulder to see just how far the gates are <em>just in case</em>.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Oh indeed.</p><p>“Anyway, it was lovely meeting you.” It isn’t as if you have better places to be—you’re just not at ease here, so far away from home, or at least as far as you’ve ever been. “However odd our circumstances may have been.”</p><p>Haruto smiles, weakly, “Very odd indeed.”</p><p>The two of you share a knowing look before you turn around, bolting back to the gates.</p><p>**</p><p>“That’s weird.”</p><p>“What is?”</p><p>“He doesn’t know your face, but he recognized who you were,” says Sachio, swimming towards the center of the bath where there sits a column, old and worn from time. “Something about it is off to me.”</p><p>“He knows my mother’s face,” you say. “No doubt he gleaned some insight in those old wrinkles of her to recognize me. Not to mention, they probably don’t have many people inside the gates visiting the village. I must've looked like a stranger from the outset."</p><p>She pauses, “You’re probably right. Maybe I’m too paranoid for my own good.”</p><p>You hum.</p><p>That doesn’t sound quite right either, but what’s the point in dissecting something that’s already inside out? “Your father offer you any leads on your new betrothed?” You ask, swimming up next to her to hang by the column, where the base is encased with moss.</p><p>She snorts, looking very much peeved at the suggestion, “My father doesn’t tell me anything. And he probably won’t until the day I’m to be married.” A sigh comes, as she sinks into the water. “<em>Men</em>.”</p><p>“Women, too,” you say, thinking about mother.</p><p>**</p><p>You’re tired.</p><p>It’s a marvelous thing to feel, even as you sit on the edge of the gate, looking out at the sleeping village and all the lights that’ve yet to go out. <em>You’re tired</em> and you’re not in the mood to smoke hemp for once, which is something of a miracle because prior to feeling tired, <em>you were always in the mood to smoke hemp</em>.</p><p>Footsteps come up slowly, quietly behind you, but you already know who it is. And when he takes a seat next to you, you decide not to say anything snarky or cold for once because—well—<em>you’re in a good mood.</em></p><p>He glances at you before turning his gaze to the village, “Tomorrow. Pinning ceremony. I’m leaving on a mission. What do you want.”</p><p>Madara’s voice is withered and cold, as if whatever pitiable measures he’d taken to be nice had fallen apart as soon as he laid eyes on you at the gate. Because speaking to you is a <em>chore</em>, albeit one that he intends to complete at the day’s end.</p><p> “Would you like to try again and speak like a normal human being?” You sigh, gazing at the sunset.</p><p>“Don’t play dumb. Just tell me what you want, woman,” he hisses.</p><p> “What do I want?” You echo, sighing wistfully at the thought. “Where to begin? I want a platter of raw salmon, I want to get gloriously fat, and I want to live every day of my life eating what I want, doing what I want without fear of retribution—"</p><p>“I’m asking what you want as a graduation present,” he sighs, rubbing his temples, looking already sick of you, but one has to wonder how much of it is for show because he’s the one who decided to sit down next to you first. “I’m leaving on a mission. There are markets out there. Silks you can’t buy around here. Candies you’ve probably never eaten before.”</p><p>“Are you going to rob them? Because I don’t want stolen goods.”</p><p>“Just stop whining and tell me what you want.”</p><p>“Oh, you meant <em>literally</em>.” You consider it, studying his face from the corner of your eye. “I can’t tell because you always sound so angry about it.”</p><p>“Ugh. Forget I asked.”</p><p>You smile, trying not to laugh at how easily he’d taken the bait. It’s too simple, you think, to screw with him. Even easier to get away with it alive. Amazing how you’ve heard all this junk about his heartlessness, only to realize he’s nothing but a big old softy behind all that bravado and cheerlessness.</p><p>“Just come back alive, alright?” You say, leaning against his shoulder. “That’ll be the best graduation you can offer me.”</p><p>But he doesn’t fight to pry you off him. In fact, he lets you stay there, and for a moment, you get some flash of clarity like <em>imagine this is what it’s like every day for the rest of our lives</em>, only for it to melt into gloom when you realize he’s likely going to marry someone else in the coming months.</p><p>“Tch. You have such pitifully low expectations,” he says.</p><p>“Ah, there he is. Smug as ever.”</p><p>But you’re not bitter about it. In fact, you’d say you don’t mind it at all. <em>You might rather like it</em>, but that’s an inevitability neither one of you will concede for some time to come. Whatever it is you’re feeling—you’re content, and as you lean against his shoulder, feeling the wet winds of spring blow through your hair, there’s one thing you know for sure.</p><p>You’re happy.</p><p>Truly, <em>truly</em> happy.</p><p>And that’s a feeling you haven’t felt in years.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i LOVE madara.</p><p>wanna talk about him on <a href="https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt">twitter</a> wif me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. dreaming of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Did I hesitate, woman?”</p><p>He did, technically a little, but you decide to save the fight for a rainy day. “You could just be nice about it.”</p><p>“That was me being nice.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You have dreams, sometimes.</p><p>But they’re often just that. Dreams. Prescribing them any intrinsic worth or meaning is just asking for trouble. There’s a reason why oracles and dream interpreters have been banned from entering the village -- they’re claiming to be mouthpieces for the gods. The divine word, that which eludes even the staunchest leaders in the Uchiha clan.</p><p>The last time an oracle snuck through the gates they ended up being burned at the stake. His crime? Scamming a court lady. Telling her she was destined to carry no children, only for her to take her own life in despair. (Hence, the prophecy that rang true despite.) It was a terribly sordid affair, and yet attendance was at an all-time high. Everyone wanted to see a crook burned: everyone wanted a spectacle to ogle. How often was deliverance offered inside these gates? Not often enough.</p><p>You were excited. Eight-years-old, too young, too brash, too black and white.</p><p>You watched the oracle burn, watched him shriek, smelled his flesh, watched it go black against pavement, dripping. You didn’t know a body could drip like that; you didn't know bodies could melt. And then you realized it wasn’t so fun anymore. You heard his screams for months on end, even alone, even in a crowded room. You heard him until you didn’t.</p><p>And then you started having dreams.</p><p>*</p><p>It starts in a vacuum of darkness. You’re swimming. Underwater somewhere far, far away. When you open your eyes and see yourself at the mercy of a koi, the size of a whale—or a shark. Its mouth is open, pursing at you. And for a while, you purse back. Puckering. It’s flirting —you and this fat koi. He makes kissy faces at you and you make some kissy faces right back.</p><p>Just when you think you’re still playing around, it sucks you into the vortex of its mouth and swallows you whole.</p><p>Inside the belly, you’re in a new world. A new village filled with new faces. Women and children walking towards the markets. It smells like roast pork. You’re staring down some road you don’t recognize—rocks of sallow frowns staring at you from a high wall. You take a breath and look around, searching for someone you know. But you don’t know any of them. You’re scared.</p><p>And then they stop, turning to look at you. The carts come reeling to a halt, the vendors lower their wares, and the everyone is staring you dead in the eye like you’ve done something wrong.</p><p>They know. (They know you don’t belong.)</p><p>They unsheathe blades from their robes and circle you. <em>You’re an imposter and they know</em>.</p><p>You open your mouth to explain yourself. <em>You’re a visitor, a tourist</em>. You’re a traveler from far, far away. You’re lost. You don’t know how to get home.</p><p>They don’t care.</p><p>They close in and the first blade cuts right through your—</p><p>*</p><p>“<strong><em>AHHHHHHHHHH</em></strong>—"</p><p>You wake up to something kicking you in the shin. You look up to see it’s one of the ministers, glaring at you. Glaring, then frowning. Frowning, then rolling his eyes.</p><p>“Ow,” you hiss at him.</p><p>When he turns away, you say it louder: “I SAID <strong><em>OW</em></strong> ASSHO—”</p><p>You fall silent when you realize everyone in your row is staring at you.</p><p>Because you’re in the middle of your pinning ceremony, waiting to be pinned. A rite of passage for any woman of the Uchiha clan. It’s supposedly an ostentatious affair. That’s why everyone’s wearing their best robes, their favorite powders, and their most glimmering pendants. That’s why you went out of your way to look right for the occasion. That’s why all the ministers and family members are in attendance, including mother who’s staring at you from the gallery with the other court fathers and court mothers.</p><p>“Oh. Oops,” you mumble, ducking your head low. “My bad.”</p><p>You look down and see you’ve already been pinned. A chrysanthemum flower tying the two lapels of your robes together. A smile breaks wide on your face.</p><p>You’ve been pinned, <em>you’re a new woman</em>.</p><p>Mother escorts you out after the ceremony, tugging you to your feet and wheeling you towards the tearoom, where she sits you down and has you pour the tea. She rattles through the list of responsibilities you have for the week -- “I’ll be busy with council meetings, writing agendas for Madara’s return, consulting the elders on—” -- and decides to forgo whatever disaster happened at the pinning ceremony. When you mention it in passing, she stares at you with disdain and pity.</p><p>“You want my congratulations for attending a formality?” Every word drips with so much poison, one has to wonder if she actually hates you. “You’ll have many more to attend, believe me. Best get used to it.”</p><p>Still dazed, you end up over-pouring and having the tea spill all over the table. She clucks at you with her tongue, calls the handmaids to fetch her a dry rag, and misses the fact that your eyes are elsewhere—somewhere far, far away. Somewhere she can’t reach.</p><p>“What? No fight left in you?” She says.</p><p>You pick up your cup to drink, only to realize it’s empty.</p><p>“May I be excused?” You ask.</p><p>She stares at you for a beat. One second, two—three. Then she nods and you rise with the sinking feeling like you’ve just murdered the ghost of yourself.</p><p>*</p><p>The courtyard is empty, everyone still in full celebration with family and friends.</p><p>Sachio gives you a look as you meet her at one of many empty tables, “Well, that was quite the sight. I’ve never seen someone fall asleep during a pinning ceremony. Must’ve given the ministers a great laugh.” She waves at her handmaid, who has at least a dozen scrolls in her arms; she flushes red at the sight of her, vanishes into the corridors from where she came. “Hm.”</p><p>“So when are you planning to run?” You ask, leaning against the wall, studying the game board set out before you. None of the spaces make sense right now: all you see are floating pieces. “Let me know so I get the chance to say goodbye.”</p><p>She snorts, “Nice of you to assume I’d get past the gates before the guards are called.”</p><p>“Stranger things have happened.”</p><p>“And never spoken of again,” she goes on, sliding another piece forward. “I hear you’re enjoying your new position. All that time spent in the village, with the elders. With your mother. With Madara. Must be great fun.”</p><p>“Yep.” It’s the only thing you can muster out.</p><p>Her gaze softens, as she studies the state of you, or what’s left of you: eyelids heavy, skin dry, and lip cut. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing, just tired.”</p><p>You try not to yawn over your game. Your focus is all over the place: one moment you’re thinking about the dream, the next you’re thinking about Madara, and suddenly you’re three moves from losing position on the board.</p><p>“Are you alright?” She looks concerned, whatever semblance of a smile disappearing from her face as she presses pause on your game. “You look … upset. And you know how much I hate using that word.”</p><p>You smile, wryly, thinking about the faces staring at you inside the belly of the koi fish. “I had a … dream, I guess.” <em>And I can’t let it go</em>.</p><p>“A dream?”</p><p>“Bad one.”</p><p>“Is it something I should be worried about?” She stops reaching for the pieces and suddenly the regret of saying too much begins dawning on you.</p><p>“No.” You yawn again, as to show her just how little you care. “Making mountains out of mole hills, you know me.”</p><p>She pauses. She doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t pry for an unwilling answer either.</p><p>*</p><p>Life goes on.</p><p>Two weeks pass: you deliver scrolls, attend council meetings, and sort out menial, boring bureaucratic crap from the village. You see Haruto, who greets you with a chipper smile and always some convenient gift: bacon cuts, lard, pig bone for broth. You resist the offers every time, but the fight to resist it becomes an even greater inconvenience, so you decide to stop fighting altogether. He says it’s the least he could do after you set up a training camp to deter local bandits. Little things. Little things that've apparently added up to something meaningful, at least to him.</p><p>Really, your encounters with him are nothing spectacular, but Sachio has a funny feeling about him, so you decide to pay heed and keep your distance as well as you can. Besides, you have a million things to do, a million people to see, and a million duties to tend. You have little time to complain, little time to sleep, and even littler time to catch your breath. You like your work—you really do, but you have a feeling you just can’t quite shake. A dream, mostly. The same one.</p><p>Smoking doesn’t help, neither doesn’t drinking. Mother thinks you’re just being sullen and moody, which is fine. She also thinks it’s a nice reprieve from bickering and talking back, and you’re too cranky to correct her because you’re not getting any sleep. The nightmares comes once, twice, and when the third time comes around, you decide enough is enough and go to the herbalist and beg.</p><p>“Hemlock, wolfsbane, nightshade, please—<strong><em>ANYTHING</em></strong>. Shove it down my gullet and put me to sleep, no more dreams, I’m begging you.”</p><p>She just stares at you, confused at the request, horrified at your eagerness, then somewhat disgusted at the lack of intelligence for having named three poisonous plants in a row.</p><p>She tosses you a pouch of chamomile tea leaves and tells you to go away. You resist the urge to toss the boulder in the rock garden at her head. You’re about to give her a piece of your mind, but you hear the handmaids chirp—</p><p>“They’re back!”</p><p>--and suddenly you’re hauling ass down the corridors and towards the gate.</p><p>*</p><p>Not many of them filter through. Madara, some foot soldiers, and the rest are unceremoniously broken-limbed, broken-spirited. Few are here to greet them, only to gawk at the carnage, and the insatiable excitement you have inevitably unravels. You’re not smiling anymore. Whatever anticipation you had of greeting him home comes crashing as he walks right past the overlook and into the halls of the compound.</p><p>*</p><p>In the night, you find him on the gate, staring out at the moon.</p><p>He’s bandaged up fresh, sitting next to an unmarked box of what you can only assume are healing supplies and herbs. He doesn’t say much as you ascend the ladder, doesn’t even greet you as you take a seat next to him.</p><p>“Do you wanna talk about it?” You ask.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Well, great, because neither do I.”</p><p>He doesn’t rise to bait.</p><p>For some reason, this compels to stay silent too as you sidle up next to him, arms barely touching as you follow his gaze to the moon.</p><p>“You look like shit,” you start, suddenly, wanting to sound biting only to sound concerned instead.</p><p>The corner of his lips tugs up to form a smirk, “Speak for yourself.”</p><p>The exchange is enough to make you smile, too. You want to ask him what happened, but you decide to save the harder conversations for another day.</p><p>“You look tired. Like you haven’t slept in days,” he says, carefully, like he’s trying not to offend you, even though, yes, it does kind of offend you. Sensing your disdain, he goes on, nose wrinkling as he tries to muster out the right words, only to ask: “What’s wrong with you?”</p><p>“You really do have some way with words,” you tell him, leaning back against two hands to see the moon swallow the sky whole. “And not that it matters, but I’ve just been having bad dreams. Nightmares, I guess. They don’t mean much, but they startle enough to make me wish I weren’t sleeping at all.”</p><p>“You’ve seen the herbalist?” He seems genuinely concerned, though it comes across more a command than a question.</p><p>“She gave me chamomile and called it a day.”</p><p>He doesn’t seem surprised, only amused as he returns his gaze to the sky. “What sort of nightmares are they?”</p><p>“I can’t tell you.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“I’m afraid they’ll come true if I do.”</p><p>“Are you a child?”</p><p>You learn forward, hugging your knees to your chest. He doesn’t look like he’s done with you, but instead of clawing for an answer, he just sighs.</p><p>"You sound like you care," you throw out, wondering if it'll stick.</p><p>Every bit of you feels different right now, like you’re undoing every string inside you that’s been stretched taut for too long. You want to put a name to this feeling, but you come up empty.</p><p>“Here.” Next to him, the box is shoved over until it bumps against your thigh. “It’s for you.”</p><p>You blink at him before looking down at the offering. “Oh? Seriously?”</p><p>“Did I hesitate, woman?”</p><p>He did, technically a little, but you decide to save the fight for a rainy day. “You could just be nice about it.”</p><p>“That was me being nice.”</p><p>“It was?” You stare at him, face all blustered and red, like he’s just been pinched in the cheeks. So glaringly transparent it’s akin to staring at a looking glass. “You know, I’d love to play you in cards some day.”</p><p>You hold the box up and shake it but hear nothing but a soft rustle inside the walls. He takes your wrist, gently, and gives you a look. “Don’t shake it,” he says, but the compulsion to do the exact opposite of what he tells you has never been more apparent. You don’t want to necessarily ruin your gift but earning that look of indignation on his face is probably better than whatever thing is laying in wait. Still, the curiosity overpowers whatever pettiness you might have about it, and you reach to open the lid, only to stop when you feeling the grip of his hand tighten around your wrist.</p><p>“Not now,” he says, letting go, putting his hand on the cover. “Later. When you’re alone.”</p><p>“Why can’t I open it now?”</p><p>“Because I don’t want to see your face when you see it.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Because you’re not going to like it.”</p><p>“Oh and here I thought it was because I’m ugly.” You shrug. “Also, that’s a ridiculous thing to say. Of course I’ll like it. I’d like it if it were grass—if it were a box of rocks.”</p><p>“Really now?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Would you like it if it were stolen?”</p><p>You balk. “…yes?"</p><p>He stares at you, “Really.”</p><p>Your resolve immediately vanishes, “Well, no, not really. But who really wants stolen goods as a gift? Stolen implies there’s blood on your hands, right? I mean, I’d appreciate the thought for what it’s worth, but I suppose I wouldn’t be very pleased about it.” All the while, you study his face, checking for some kind of sign you don’t find. “Is it, though? Stolen?”</p><p>“No,” he says. “I commissioned it.”</p><p>“Oh. Art then? I like art.”</p><p>He rubs his temples, rising to his feet.</p><p>“You’re leaving already?” You pout.</p><p>“I have duties to attend.”</p><p>It occurs to you only then that you’re probably the first familiar face he’s seen since returning. Outside the infirmary and elders, of course. It’s a small revelation, the kind of thing that makes your stomach do a jump, but you’re so desperate to keep cool and keep collected that your face ends up stoning into indifference.</p><p>A pause comes, as he nears the ladder, “One more thing.”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“You’re not ugly,” he says, departing down the edge.</p><p>You snort, turning towards the gift. Only when you hear the rustling vanish do you lift the top of the box and see what’s inside.</p><p>Silks the shade of gold that turns seamlessly into sunset red, deep burgundy. White cranes run up the bodice, chasing the sun, a lotus bud in bloom. You’ve never seen colors like this inside the compound, only ever seen it in the sky—at the edge of the gates, staring out at a horizon you can never reach.</p><p>Your eyes sting with tears, as you look down at the gown. The colors melt together, forming one discombobulated blob. You don’t know where the sunset begins and where the silks end.</p><p>It’s the most beautiful kimono you’ve ever seen.</p><p>You sniff, wiping away your eyes with your sleeve. Something rustles, the wind whistles, and you turn around to find nothing there. An unwitting smile forms on your face as you hug the kimono to your chest, breathing in the fabric. It smells like something foreign, something light--it smells like the dreams you don't have, and the dreams you will some day.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>plz dont yell at me for being late... &gt;_&gt;</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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